


Pressure Points

by intrajanelle



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, masseuse!Marco, writer!Jean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-21 02:04:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1533617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intrajanelle/pseuds/intrajanelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean is overworked. Marco is a masseuse. Shenanigans ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Touch

**Author's Note:**

> So it’s finals week and the other day I got like three hours of sleep and woke up with a knot in my back that lasted all friggin day and all I wanted was someone to give me a massage so I had Marco give Jean massages instead. Lucky him. I’m pretty sure this will be three chapters long but it might be four or five. We’ll see.

Jean blamed Eren, Reiner and Connie, in that order.

 

Eren for monopolizing his entire fucking bed after Jean pulled a double at Denny’s just because he _had_ to play Halo with Armin until 2 a.m. Reiner for slapping his shoulder in the hall before class, after he’d gotten barely four hours of sleep on the fucking floor. And Connie for recognizing that he couldn’t move his back and dragging him straight from Intermediate Nonfiction to a fucking spa.

 

Jean hadn’t even been aware their campus _had_ a spa.

 

“I came here with Sasha last month, man. It’s really chill. It’ll be fine,” Connie said, reaching to pat Jean’s shoulder but catching Jean’s wince at the last minute.

 

Jean was grateful when Connie shoved his hand into a pocket instead of touching him. He could barely turn his neck. Considering the hours he’d been putting in at work, on top of midterms, on top of being broke, the fact that every muscle in his back was having a spasm simultaneously was really just his luck. It felt like someone had shoved tar into his spine and laced that tar with electrodes.

 

As Connie signed him in with the receptionist it was all Jean could do to stand behind him and stare at the floor because it hurt too much to raise his head. He shoved his hands into his pockets and made sure to scowl as he thanked Connie, not to let on how much he really, really appreciated this.

 

If he started to get sappy Connie might take him to a therapist next and Jean didn’t have all day to evaluate his tragic childhood. He actually only had about two hours left until he had another shift. He shuffled his feet and peered at Connie through his bangs, thanking Christ that Con was shorter than him so he didn’t have to lift his head.

 

“How long is this gonna take?” Jean asked.

 

“They said they’ll see you in five,” Connie said, looking up as someone entered the waiting room.

 

“Jean Kirstein?” a soft voice called.

 

Jean assumed the voice was attached to the tall, tone body that had just appeared beside him and Connie, but everything still hurt and he couldn’t lift his head to see the guys face. Everything below the guy’s shoulders was okay though. Besides being taller than Jean, he was about Jean’s size and had smooth muscular biceps where his t-shirt hugged at his shoulders. As the guy crossed his arms Jean followed the patterns of freckles that littered his skin like amateur constellations. 

 

“Yeah,” Jean said, turning toward the guy but not raising his head. “That’s me.”

 

“Do you normally stare at the ground when you talk? You don’t seem the type,” the guy said, sounding vaguely amused.

 

Jean hated him already.

 

“Jean?” Connie said, stepping closer to him. Con was short enough to see right into Jean’s guilty eyes. He frowned and looked about ready to slap Jean upside the head. “Did you seriously throw out your back, man? Why didn’t you say anything?”

 

“Just get me some Advil, I’ll be fine—“ Jean said, cheeks flaming as he turned for the door.

 

Mr. Freckles wrapped long fingers around Jean’s wrist, stopping him in his tracks with a tug. It hadn’t even been that hard of a tug, but it sent a throb rushing from joint to joint like his pain was playing pinball. Jean was afraid that pulling away might actually yank his arm from his socket, so he just stood in the guys grip, letting the ache unfurl along his shoulder blades like ripples in a pool.

 

Connie looked like he wanted to punch Jean in the nose for letting it get this bad but he only seethed for another moment or two before turning to Mr. Freckles and saying, “I think he needs acupuncture. Like, lots of acupuncture.”

 

“No needles,” Jean said, tensing until every inch of body was stiff and sore.

 

Mr. Freckles didn’t release his arm. Instead he placed a warm hand on Jean’s abused shoulder and began kneading the muscle. In an instant Jean was jelly, his arms hung loose at his sides, his head lolled forward and he might have fallen flat on his face if not for the hand tight around his wrist.

 

“No needles today,” Mr. Freckles agreed. “But a some point, definitely. You need it. For now let’s just get you on a table.”

 

“Bet you say that to all the girls,” Jean slurred, his feet following Mr. Freckles against his own free will. They were following the magic hands like children danced after the Pied Piper.

 

“I was about to say he’s not usually such an ass but that’d be a lie,” Connie said.

 

Mr. Freckles chuckled and the sound sent another ache cascading through Jean’s chest, but this one had nothing to with his bad back.

 

“We’ll be right back,” Mr. Freckles said, and just before he closed the door behind them Jean was sure Connie replied, “Just _keep_ him.”

 

+

 

Once Jean was situated on his stomach on a long, comfy table, with his face pressed against one of those little donut pillows so that he could see the floor, Mr. Freckles stood beside him for a moment. Jean assumed he was frowning, because from what he could see Mr. Freckles had his hands on his hips and was tapping his foot, the picture of contemplation.

 

“So, how much do you like this shirt exactly?” Mr. Freckles eventually asked.

 

“Not as much as I like to move my neck,” Jean said.

 

“Good, because I think I have to cut it off,” Mr. Freckles said and Jean could hear him opening a drawer somewhere. “I have an extra you can wear when you leave.”

 

Jean felt Mr. Freckles lift up the bottom of his thin striped t-shirt and begin cutting it right along the spine. It felt kind of kinky, especially when Mr. Freckles cut it up his arms and slid the ruined thing out from under him in one tug.

 

Jean felt cold and achy for one more moment before Mr. Freckles was rubbing a heated cream along his shoulders with long, thin fingers, massaging the hurt right out of him. The guys ministrations over his back muscles lasted a few more luxurious moments before he focused on Jean’s vertebrae, slipping practiced hands over each knob in Jean’s spine.

 

Jean could feel consciousness slipping away from him and with a desperate, final attempt to remain _awake_ dammit, because he had work soon, he spoke up.

 

“So, you’re a masseuse,” Jean said, eloquently.

 

“A masseur,” Mr. Freckles replied.

 

“A what now?”

 

“A masseuse is a female massage therapist. The guys are called masseurs. It’s a common mistake,” Mr. Freckles said, pressing a thumb against Jean’s back in just the right way so that something popped. Jean felt tension leaking from him like water from a drain.

 

He sighed and relaxed against the table. He seriously doubted he’d ever be able to stand again, his arms and legs felt like overcooked spaghetti.

 

Just before he almost drifted off for good, Mr. Freckles said, “You have high blood pressure.”

 

Jean moaned, straight up moaned, like he was in the middle of sex, because this guy was literally pressing all of his internal and external buttons. He snapped, “I’m just stressed,” but it didn’t come out as threatening as usual because every inch of him was jelly in the hands of this freckled masseuse.

 

“You’re 21. We normally only see joints worn this bad on customers twice your age,” Mr. Freckles said, sounding worried.

 

No one worried about Jean. No one. Okay, maybe Connie did, and Sasha, but that was because they’d been his best friends since the third grade. Jean wasn’t used to his own parents expressing concern for his wellbeing let alone perfect strangers.

 

He took a deep breath and tried to get his hands under him to stand. “Listen, I have to get to work soon I should really—“

 

“You should lie down,” Mr. Freckles said, pressing lightly on his back.

 

It was the first time in days that pressure on his muscles hadn’t hurt and Jean felt all of his resolve crumble in the weight of this guys practiced hands.

 

“‘Kay,” he said, falling back against the bed.

 

He would stay. The guy could give a pretty good massage, but if he started getting nosy Jean was out of here with or without a shirt. He had one condition for staying, however. He couldn’t keep thinking of this guy as Mr. Freckles.

 

“What’s your name?” Jean mumbled, trying and failing to turn his head to actually look the guy in the eye.

 

Mr. Freckles paused for a second, fingers that nudged at Jean’s hips coming to a standstill before picking up where they left off. “Marco,” the guy said, on the edge of a laugh. “Are you saying you don’t recognize me, Jean?”

 

 Jean hummed, eyes fluttering closed. His whole body felt warm and heavy. With little more than an exhale Jean Kirstein fell into his first peaceful sleep in weeks.

 

+

 

 

When Jean woke up it was dark outside and Connie was standing next to his bed. For a moment Jean thought he was back in his dorm but then he remembered being dragged to the spa and became painfully aware of the numb creases on his cheeks and forehead from where his face had been pressed against the donut pillow for what felt like hours.

 

 

Jean lurched up, Connie rushing to push him back against the bed.

 

“What time is it? I have work and—“

 

“I told Levi you were sick,” Connie said, meeting Jean’s eyes. It was a rare thing to see Connie mad, and he looked _pissed_ , so Jean allowed himself to be manhandled back onto the bed.

 

“Yeah?” Jean said. “So am I fired?”

 

“Levi may be an asshole and a drill sergeant but, despite popular belief, he doesn’t actually want you to work you to death,” Connie said. “I think he’d be pissed about all the paperwork he’d have to deal with.”

 

Jean huffed and crossed his arms over his bare chest.

 

“Oh and Marco left you this,” Connie said, tossing a shirt at Jean.

 

Jean caught it with his face and spluttered for a second before holding it in front of him. “Pink Floyd. Nice,” Jean said, pulling the soft fabric over his head.

 

As he lifted his arms to get his arms through the sleeves he noticed that it was the first time in a very long time that the movement hadn’t sent a deep throb through his entire upper body. He was still sore and he felt like he should go back to sleep for another five years but he no longer felt like setting his back on fire just to ebb the pain.

 

“Marco, huh?” Jean said, when Connie finally allowed him to stand. He remembered something about Mr. Freckles’ name being Marco, something about not recognizing the guy from somewhere, but everything was shrouded in a dull sleepy haze. “Should I know him?”

 

Connie laughed. “Dude, yeah you should. He’s in our science elective lecture.”

 

“There are, like, 200 people in that lecture. How would I remember him?” Jean scoffed.

 

“Jean,” Connie said, staring at him incredulously. “He’s the TA. He’s been the TA for the last two months. Stands at the front of the class and everything. Just how tired _have_ you been lately?”

 

Jean sighed and ruffled his hair.

 

Connie was quiet as he stared at him. He seemed less angry now, more resigned to the fact that his best friend was a complete moron.

 

“C’mon. You can go thank Marco for the free massage and then you’re going back to your room to sleep for, like, three days.”

 

“Free?” Jean said, bristling.

 

Connie gave an aggravated sigh. “It’s not a handout, dumbass. First massage is free. Spa policy.”

 

Jean relaxed again, more easily than he might have before his massage. He still felt loose and sleepy, calmer than he had in a long time. He allowed Connie to drag him from the room and towards the front desk.

 

“And I can’t sleep for three days,” Jean added as they walked. “I have work at 8 tomorrow—“

 

Jean stopped then, physically and mentally. Because there was a guy standing behind the counter talking to the receptionist and he was laughing and he was throwing his head back and Jean felt like every single synapse in his brain was spontaneously combusting.

 

“Jean,” the guy said, looking up at him and smiling and he had freckles and he was Marco. Of course he was Marco.

 

It took a minute for Jean to gather his thoughts enough to respond and in that time Marco tilted his head at him, worry creeping into his expression as naturally as a smile.

 

“Are you okay? Does your neck still hurt?” Marco said.

 

“Oh, yeah, thanks for the massage, I guess. I really appreciate it. Thanks,” Jean said, practically stuttering.

 

He was sure Connie was giving him an odd look but he couldn’t bring himself to face him.

 

“No problem,” Marco smiled, and then he paused to run his eyes up and down Jean like he was sizing up a particularly demanding task. “You know, you should come back in a couple days.”

 

Jean narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest, very aware that the shirt he was wearing was something Marco had worn, and washed and worn again, maybe for years.

 

“Why?” Jean asked, suspicious to a fault.

 

“Because. You’re overworked. You have school and a job—“

 

“I have two jobs,” Jean said, rubbing his nose.

 

“You’re only proving my point,” Marco said. “Your back is going to start hurting again sooner or later. Come back in Wednesday. I’ll give you a discount seeing as you’re one of my students.”

 

Jean opened his mouth, a protest on his lips, but something about the way Marco’s stupid hair was doing a stupid flippy thing as he stood there smiling at him made him pause. He rubbed the back of his neck and stared at the floor as he said, “Okay. I’ll be here.”

 

He didn’t know how he’d afford all the massages, discount or not, but he’d be there.

 

“Great!” Marco said, eyes crinkling this time as he smiled a wide, satisfied smile.

 

+

 

When Jean and Connie stepped just outside the spa, Connie stopped him short and looked him in the eye.

 

“Dude, are you—“ Connie said, searching.

 

“No,” Jean interrupted him, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Let’s go back.”

 

“But—“

 

“Connie. No,” Jean said, almost snapping, and then forced himself to calm down enough to say, “Thanks for this.”

 

Connie sighed and joined him on the sidewalk. He patted Jean’s shoulder carefully and then fell into an easy silence with him.

 

Jean spent the entire walk back thinking about everything but his new freckled masseuse. Fortunately, there was a lot to think about.


	2. Crush

Jean woke up the next morning feeling more relaxed than he had in months.

 

Even though his roommate, Armin, had fallen asleep playing a video game and the Game Over sequence was continually flashing in the dim light of their dorm room and even though Armin was snoring and the guys in the stairwell beside their room were stomping down the stairs and even though a car horn was blaring and it was 7 a.m. and Jean had work in an hour, he felt relaxed. He felt like he’d been walking around with weights tied to his arms for most of his life and Marco had cut the strings away, like if someone gave him a firm push he’d go floating off into the ether, never to be seen again.

 

Unfortunately, that kind of thinking wasn’t going to get him out of bed, or dressed, or ready for a shift at Denny’s. All it was going to get him was late.

 

So he rolled out of bed, turned the TV off, kicked Armin so he’d turn over and cease his snoring and then dragged himself into the communal bathroom to make himself at least resemble a human being. By the time he hauled himself into Denny’s forty-five minutes later Levi was standing in the center of the empty restaurant, hands crossed over his slight chest.

 

“You’re late,” he said.

 

“I’m fifteen minutes early,” Jean said, staring at the clock over Levi’s shoulder in confusion.

 

Levi stared up at Jean from under the yellow Denny’s baseball cap he insisted all of his employees wore. A short, thin, murderous man in a yellow hat shouldn’t have been intimidating but Jean bristled and braced himself to be yelled at.

 

Instead of shouting, Levi narrowed his thin eyes at Jean, until Jean was shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. After another awkward moment Levi reached behind the counter and tossed a mop and bucket at Jean’s head. Jean caught them just before he wound up concussed.

 

“Clean the men’s bathroom, asswipe. And don’t let this happen again,” Levi said, before stomping back into the kitchen where Jean could hear their chef, Mike, making a mess of the merchandise.

 

If Jean hadn’t known any better he would have thought that was Levi’s way of saying he’d been worried yesterday. But Jean did know better and he also knew that the sooner Levi’s orders were followed through the less likely he was to get fired, so it was with great determination that Jean dragged himself into the men’s bathroom for an undoubtedly brilliant start to another fine day. 

 

After his shift Jean had Art of Fiction, a class that he usually slept through, except today they were discussing Plath and Jean would sacrifice sleep if it meant defending his favorite author from the plebian dickheads in his class. He ended up nearly biting a freshman’s head off when he insinuated Plath’s poetry was anything but _inspired_ and left class an hour later feeling grumpy and, somehow, tired again.

 

As he trudged across campus he felt the fatigue he’d been dodging all day begin to seep back into his muscles. He only got his feet moving with the promise that he just had a shift at the bar and then he could go back to his dorm and sleep.

 

Of course, he’d only get to sleep a grand total of six hours before he had to do the whole thing over again, but at least now he had the added bonus of getting a massage from a cute masseuse after Intermediate Nonfiction tomorrow.

 

Thinking about Marco distracted him enough to fumble a glass he’d been cleaning. He was at Erwin’s bar, halfway through his shift, and the only customers they’d had had been regulars, so he was distracting himself by drying their wine glasses by hand. As soon as his thoughts slipped to Marco though, the glass skid from his fingers. He watched numbly as it spun toward the floor where it would inevitably shatter and the bill would have to be taken out of his paycheck and he would never earn enough money for all of his expenses this month.

 

Just before it shattered Erwin came to the rescue, plucking it out of the air with his single functional hand. It figured that Erwin, even with a broken arm that consisted of a badly shattered humerus, even while he was confined to a shoulder to wrist cast for the next several months, was more capable than Jean was with all of his extremities fully operational.

 

Erwin turned with a wide white grin and then slapped a hand on Jean’s back.  “You okay tonight?” he asked, looking Jean in the eye.

 

Erwin had a freakish ability to tell when people were lying, so instead of coming up with an excuse Jean just looked away and continued drying glasses.

 

“I’m sure your boyfriend has told you the whole story,” Jean said.

 

Erwin chuckled. “He just told me you missed work. Although he said it much more colorfully than that.”

 

Jean raised an eyebrow. Erwin hadn’t denied being Levi’s boyfriend this time. Maybe they’d made progress. Not that Jean cared. Their gooey, sappy, stupid love life was none of his business. That, and he had way more important things to think about than if his bosses were hooking up. In fact, the very thought gave him Goosebumps.

 

Jean sighed, put down his washcloth and leaned against the counter. It wasn’t surprising that it was a slow night considering it was a Tuesday, but usually they had more patrons show up on nights Krista played her guitar on the small stage out back. Tonight the only one in the audience was Ymir, who sat tall and intimidating at her table, arms crossed over her chest. Jean had to wonder if she was single-handedly warding off all of their customers.

 

That could be a problem, considering he was too tired at this point to kick her out if Erwin asked him to. Hell, if he’d been wide awake he probably couldn’t have taken her, and that was damn hard for him to admit but it was true. Krista’s stalker/kind-of-girlfriend was one tough motherfucker.

 

“If you need time off, just let me know,” Erwin said, and before Jean could protest that there was _no need_ because _he was absolutely fine_ , a customer sat at the counter and Erwin headed in their direction.

 

Erwin was just pulling a beer out from under the counter when a sharp voice cut through the soft twangs of Krista’s next song. Krista’s fingers stuttered across the chords and she looked up, voice tapering. Her reaction had Ymir on her feet in a half a second, stomping toward the large bulky guy that was shouting in the entryway.

 

Jean wasn’t sure where he’d come from, but he’d seen him before, somewhere. He was tall and meaty, with flushed skin and a head full of long greasy hair. It wasn’t until Jean saw his biker jacket that he recognized the guy as a Titan.

 

Behind the bar Jean tensed, but before he could make a move Erwin placed a hand on his shoulder.

 

“I’ll take care of this,” Erwin assured Jean before pushing his cellphone into Jean’s hands and stepping around the counter.

 

Ymir was already in front of the guy, fists clenched at her side. Erwin gave her a hard look and she took a single, decisive step back.

 

“This music _sucks_ ,” the Titan said, and Jean realized he’d been repeating nearly the same thing since he’d walked into the bar, preemptively trashed. It was why Krista had stopped playing, why Ymir looked like she was about to commit homicide, why Erwin was now wrapping a hand around the Titan’s beefy shoulder and leading him outside.

 

If he’d been more awake Jean might have been able to stop the scene before it had even begun. One of his jobs at the bar was to be a pseudo-bouncer. He’d been recommended to the job by Levi when he’d requested more hours at Denny’s, because Erwin had needed the hand, quite literally, after he’d gotten into a car accident nearly two months ago. Jean was supposed to be here so Erwin didn’t have to exert the energy to deal with assholes, especially not the Titans, who Jean suspected were behind Erwin’s accident in the first place.

 

Levi was going to kill him, Jean realized, for letting himself get so overworked that he couldn’t even do one of the only things he was meant to do at this place.

 

When Erwin returned a minute later, rubbing his hand on his apron, he found Jean’s eyes and nodded.

 

Jean nodded back, feeling numb and stupid. He cleaned all the glasses twice, refilled the beer cabinet, washed the counters and the barstools, and only left once the bar was satisfyingly spotless.

 

Which meant he ended up back at his dorm at 2 a.m., hours later than he’d meant to, to Sasha and Connie asleep on his bed.

 

Armin was up playing Portal and only shrugged when Jean asked why they were there.

 

“They said something about an intervention,” Armin said, before returning to his game, pumping his fist as he managed to pass a particularly difficult level.

 

Jean sighed and kicked Connie awake. Connie flailed and elbowed Sasha, who woke with a jerk, spewing a half-chewed Oreo onto Jean’s bed.

 

“Gross,” Jean groaned, but he didn’t get to complain further before Connie yelled, “Jean!” and promptly dragged him into the hall, for, from the little Jean could gather, some improvised privacy.

 

“What are you morons doing, I need sleep—“

 

“Why are you working yourself into the ground?” Connie asked, flanked by Sasha who was still rubbing sleep from her eyes.

 

They both seemed honestly concerned and for not the first time in the past few days Jean was bowled by people worrying over him. But instead of letting on that he was touched, like a normal person, Jean just crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged.

 

“You look like shit, dude,” Sasha said, placing a hand on Jean’s shoulder. “And we’ve known you long enough to tell that this isn’t your usual level of looking like shit. Like, you don’t look like you’re trying hard to look like you look like shit to make you seem cool or something. You actually look like shit,” Sasha paused, “I mean, you’re working yourself _really hard_ this semester.”

 

Jean sighed. It felt like all he was doing these days was sighing.

 

He debated whether or not he should actually tell them what had happened over winter break. They couldn’t do much besides yell at him. At this point his decision, his dad’s decision, was set in stone.

 

When Jean looked up again it was because he’d slid to the floor and was now looking up at Connie and Sasha through droopy eyelids.

 

“Please, dude. We can help,” Connie said.

 

Sasha nodded and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Oreo?” she said, pulling some snacks from her pockets.

 

It was stupid but the thought that Sasha was offering her food to him was enough to bring tears to his eyes. He snuffled miserably and tried to suck any stray moisture straight back into his eyeballs because there was no way in hell he was crying in the middle of the hall at two in the morning just because his childhood friend was willing to share a cookie with him.

 

“My dad cut me off.” Jean started.

 

And Sasha’s Oreos were quickly forgotten.

 

His friends were quiet as they settled beside him on the floor. Above them someone was playing DDR because Jean could hear a pair of feet stomping rhythmically to 90s dance songs. Someone else was banging on a wall, shouting that everyone should be quiet, someone else was watching Breaking Bad too loud, someone else was stomping down the stairs. The sounds of the dormitory surrounded Jean like a some kind of cozy, familiar blanket as he slowly began to explain, in no uncertain terms, that over winter break his dad had found out he had become an English major and promptly threatened that if he didn’t switch to pre-law he was being cut off financially.

 

His mother had been gone for six years now and he had no siblings, so there was no one to fight for him. No one to grab his arm and hold him up while his father had severed any and all ties with his only son. Mr. Kirstein, it seemed, didn’t want to be associated, or financially responsible, for a failed writer.

 

So here Jean was, working two jobs, taking four classes, and only just managing to scrape by. His back was starting to hurt again just thinking about how many hours to still had to work this week to even begin to pay off his expenses.

 

At the end of it all Connie was speechless and angry, Sasha was just angry.

 

“That damn bastard,” Sasha kept muttering. “That damn rotten, good-for-nothing absolute _bastard_.”

 

By the time they left Jean at three in the morning it was with promises that they would help him figure everything out, admonishments that he should have told them sooner and a demand that at the very least he get himself a massage ~~tomorrow~~ today so that he wouldn’t be dead on his feet.

 

Jean saw them off and then dragged himself to his bed, but as tired as he was he couldn’t find it in himself to go to sleep.

 

Instead, he pulled his laptop out from under his mattress and began a new chapter of his novel. He still hadn’t picked out a title, but after the bar fight last night he had a few good ideas. And if this was what he was working so hard to be able to do for the rest of his life, the least he could do was sacrifice a few hours of sleep to string some words together about horrifying giant creatures and the gallant warriors that fought them. That, and he still had to decide how the story was going to end.

 

+

 

By the time he got to the spa the next day he looked like trampled horse shit. He’d been to work and two classes on two hours of sleep and by now the bags under his eyes had invited their entire extended family of bags to party on his face.

 

When he caught sight of Marco waiting behind the counter, the masseuse’s smile lasted barely a second before he was frowning and striding over to press one long-fingered hand to Jean’s forehead.

 

“You seem even worse than you did before, Jean. What happened?” Marco demanded.

 

“Bad day,” Jean said, trying very, very hard to not lean into Marco’s touch, or to supplement that it was more like a bad day on top of a bad year on top of his horrible, no-good, very bad life.

 

“I’m taking him right back, Mina,” Marco called to the receptionist, before placing a gentle hand on Jean’s elbow and leading him toward the back.

 

This time Jean barely remembered shedding his t-shirt or being ushered onto the table, or pressing his resolute face against the donut pillow. He didn’t remember much between Marco pressing his hand to his forehead and an hour later when Marco began placing steaming hot rocks along his spine.

 

“Jesus Christ on a stick, Marco! What are you doing?” Jean demanded, attempting to push himself up.

 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Marco said, pacing another rock on his back.

 

Jean, sensing that if he did stand he would be destroying a collection of special magical masseuse rocks that he did not have the money to replace, very slowly laid back down and proceeded to stare holes into the freckled ankles standing stolidly beside his table.

 

“What are you doing?” Jean repeated, at the risk of sounding like a disgruntled parrot.

 

“It’s called a hot stone massage,” Marco explained, placing another rock on Jean’s lower spine. “It helps ease muscle pain and improve circulation. Just a massage really wasn’t going to cut it this time, you’re too worn out.”

 

“Did you say ‘just a massage’?” Jean groaned. Marco had given him a massage _and_ this hot rock thing? “How much do I owe you for all of this?”

 

“Nothing,” Marco said, casually.

 

Jean turned his head in the donut pillow to look at the masseuse. Marco pulled a chair over and sat by Jean’s table.

 

“I don’t need charity,” Jean grumbled.

 

“It’s not charity. This is a teaching spa, so as long as I learn something from your session you don’t need to pay anything. I’ve been meaning to test out the hot stones—“

 

“You mean you haven’t done this before—!“

 

“And if I get to try out something new every time you come you get a free massage out of it,” Marco said, tilting his head in a wide smile. “Doesn’t that sound perfect?”

 

Jean could feel his cheeks burning, and not because there were hot rocks lining his spine. For a tall, muscular, grad student, this guy was damn cute, and he probably didn’t even realize it.

 

Jean looked away for a moment, focusing on Marco’s hands folded across his chest. They were wet from the rocks, shining in the dim light of the private room. The water outlined his freckles and the smooth crescents of his clean fingernails.

 

“I don’t know how much Connie told you,” Jean said, choosing his words carefully, “but you don’t need to feel obligated to help me.”

 

“I don’t feel obligated,” Marco said, frowning, the downward turn of his lips seemed foreign on his cheery face. “I like you.”

 

Jean almost jumped in surprise, but thankfully his limbs felt like the consistency of overcooked noodles at the moment and the most he could manage was an eyebrow twitch.

 

“I see you in science all the time and—you just—it’s, well, you seem like a hard worker,” Marco said, his face was flushed, but that could have been due to his proximity to the hot plate he’d been using to heat the stones. “And you’re nice.”

 

Jean huffed a laugh.

 

“You are. To your friends at least. I think the only person I ever see you fighting with is Eren Jaeger and that’s—I mean. I’m rambling but, you seem like a good person and it isn’t fair that you have to work so hard on top of classes, so I want to help,” Marco said.

 

Jean had to turn his face into his donut pillow just to hide the fact that he was red all the way to the tips of his undercut.

 

“Thanks,” he managed.

 

“Don’t mention it,” Marco said, leaning forward to replace the hot rocks on Jean’s spine with hot rocks on his upper shoulders. “So, while I have you here, care to share why you’re working yourself into the ground?”

 

Jean stiffened, not by much considering his muscles were so relaxed that they couldn’t have truly become stiff if his life depended on him becoming a stone wall, but Marco still noticed.

 

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Its just that sometimes it helps people, to talk about why they’re here,” Marco said, kneading some kind of heated oil into the divots of Jean’s spine. Jean wanted to throw his head back and moan, long and low. “As much as I can help lessen the physical effects of overwork, sometimes what’s really causing someone stress is a very mental thing. I can massage all I want but I can’t reach into the brain and rearrange things until they no longer cause someone stress. So it helps some people to talk.”

 

Marco arranged Jean’s arms at his sides and began coaxing hot oil from his wrists to his shoulders. As he placed more heated stones on Jean’s freshly oiled skin, he said, “So you can talk if you want, but if you don’t, I can.”

 

Jean wanted to tell Marco things about himself in a way he hadn’t wanted to tell anyone else in years. Hell, he didn’t tell Connie and Sasha shit and they were his best friends. And he had a horrible feeling he knew exactly why he wanted to divulge his deepest darkest secrets, anything to everything, to the guy currently massaging his muscles into goo. But at the moment he was tired and sinking so far into the table that he may as well have melted into the cushions. So he just nodded, and then, realizing that might not be the most informative of answers, said, “Yeah, please, the last one. You tell me about you.”

 

Marco paused for a moment, probably to laugh at Jean’s less than superior word choices, before he continued his ministrations.

 

“Okay then, what would you like to know?”

 

Everything, Jean wanted to say, but he managed to gasp, “Your major, start with your major,” as Marco moved the hot stones in small circles along his shoulder blades.

 

“I’m a massage therapy major,” Marco said, and it sounded like he was smiling.

 

From there Marco told Jean about how he was in grad school, how he was an only child, an orphan, how he lived in his parent’s old house north of Trost. Marco must’ve thought Jean passed out at one point because he just kept talking, he talked about his grandparents and how they’d raised him until they’d died one after the other just before he’d started college. He told him about his freshman year, how he’d overworked himself in a similar fashion to how Jean had and had decided on massage therapy to help people relax when they were enduring stress. Because he'd always wanted to help people, even in such a small, simple way as giving someone a massage. He told Jean about other customers at the spa and how he’d always wanted to adopt a dog and a book he was reading on Reiki.

 

By the time Marco was done putting the stones away and washing Jean’s back with a warm damp cloth Jean was mostly asleep and Marco had to poke him awake but Jean could still remember mostly everything Marco had told him.

 

He headed back to his dorm that night with the promise that he would come by in two days for another massage and the crippling warmth on the fringes of his heart that meant he was probably, definitely already falling for his masseuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied. There will be 6 chapters. Also I am moving to LA for the summer next week, which means I'm moving all the way across the country, which means I may not update for a couple weeks I'm sorry.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the update!! Also I have a tumblr: intrajanelle.tumblr.com


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